


Heart to Heart

by angelicwinchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2x17 Heart, Angst, Big Brother Dean, Brother Feels, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Sam, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mother Hen Dean Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s02e17 Heart, Protective Dean Winchester, Sad Sam Winchester, dean is a good big brother, kind of plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 08:58:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15191330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelicwinchesters/pseuds/angelicwinchesters
Summary: This takes place immediately after the events of 2x17, Heart. Sam is upset about Madison and Dean is a good big brother to him.Nothing really happens, just some brotherly feels.





	Heart to Heart

Dean didn’t just hear the gunshot – he felt it. He felt his heart lurch inside his chest, his jaw clench, his grip tighten around his own gun in his right hand. The noise seemed to echo in his head.

Then came another terrible sound. A thud. The sound of a body falling to the floor.

He stayed staring at the same patch of wallpaper on the wall ahead. He couldn’t hear anything else from the next-door room. A piercing silence had fallen. He thought he ought to give Sam some time before he went in. He couldn’t rid his mind of the awful look on his little brother’s face before he had gone in there. He had looked so pained, so small. There had been something in his eyes that had taken Dean back to a time when they were both kids. In that moment, Sam was just a scared little boy. Every fibre in Dean’s being had been desperately searching for a way to fix this; to take the pain away, a way to protect his little brother. But there wasn’t one. He knew Sam had to do this. But still, Dean’s feeling of helplessness sat in the pit of his stomach like an ache.

A few moments had passed now. Dean reached around to his back to stow his gun in the waistband of his jeans before taking a deep breath, stirring his shaky legs and rounding the corner into the other room.   
He was met with the sight of a lifeless woman, sprawled on the floor with a pool of blood oozing from a bullet hole at her heart. It was spreading through her shirt fast. Her eyes were gazing at the ceiling above…but not really looking. Dean swallowed as it occurred to him that they had met this woman not four days ago. She’d had a job, friends, a life. They’d seen her smile and laugh and cry. Then everything had changed so fast and suddenly she was lying dead in her apartment, the floor being painted with her own blood. She didn’t look like a monster at all.

Dean tore his gaze from her and looked around the rest of the room. No Sam. That was when Dean noticed that the apartment door was ajar and swaying slightly, as though it had just been opened. 

It had been this way since they were little. Sam would always hurt in solitude.

Whether it be a broken arm or a broken promise, Dean’s little brother would rarely let anyone see him cry. Dean recalled the weeks, months after Jessica’s death. Sam would wake in the middle of the night, screaming, sometimes shaken out of a nightmare by Dean. Despite Dean’s expressions of worry, Sam would insist that he was alright and that he was going back to sleep. But later, when he thought Dean was asleep, that’s when the long-held-back tears would come in quiet, hushed weeps. Dean wanted to say something, do something then too and often he would – give his brother a reassuring touch of some kind, offer to talk or stay up and watch whatever crap was on the TV with him. But mostly these attempts at comfort would only result in Sam once again “appreciating the concern” but insisting he was okay. God, it was so damn hard to get anything out of that kid – he bottled so much up. 

Now, Dean’s not saying he himself was much better at sharing and caring but what did that matter? He was the big brother – he was meant to be the one to keep the game face on for Sam, not the other way around.   
Dean was unsure whether Sam genuinely wanted to be left alone or whether he just didn’t want to be a “burden” to anyone else. Probably both. The trouble is it’s hard to hide things from a person when you live in the same motel room, or car. Especially when that person is your brother. Especially when your brother is Dean Winchester.

Presently, Dean stepped forward slowly on the creaking floorboards towards the body. The place was eerily quiet; it felt wrong to be making noise. He squatted beside the corpse and reached out a hand to gently brush the unseeing eyes of the woman shut. As he rose to his feet again, a wave of anger came over him, causing him to once again swallow the lump in his throat. Why did this always seem to happen to them, to Sammy? Every chance, every slight chance of something good happening in his life seemed to be torn from his hands in the cruellest way. This life was never going to be easy – Dean knew that, Sam knew that. But that didn’t make the crappy parts any less…well, crappy.

Dean took one last look at the too-still body before starting towards the apartment door, out and down the stairs. Reaching the bottom of the building, he pulled the heavy door open and stepped out into the bright light of midmorning. He briefly scanned up and down the street for any sign of his brother before resting his gaze on the Impala, parked on the opposite side of the road. 

Dean’s brother was standing by the trunk of the car, which had been opened. He had his head down, eyes fixed on his hands as they emptied the remaining silver bullets from his gun and placed them in the trunk, along with the gun itself. Dean remained where he was as he watched Sam close the lid of the trunk – with slightly more force than usual. Sam slowly raised his head as he made his way round to the passenger seat, but he stopped in his tracks when he made eye contact with Dean across the road. Even from here, Dean could tell his eyes were dark and his shoulders seemed to be carrying a sizeable weight on them. Dean tried not to look pitiful of his little brother; he knew Sam would hate that. But honestly, seeing him like that with such heaviness in his stare, it was hard. 

Breaking the gaze between them, Sam continued his journey to the passenger seat, pulling the door open and sitting inside. Dean walked over to the car, placing his weapon in the trunk too before shuffling round to his door. All the while, his gaze was on Sam, monitoring his expression. It was one of many emotions; guilt, regret, fury, sorrow. But also, a strange determination not to show any of these. Of course, Dean knew better. And Dean continued to look at him as he entered the car and sat down in the driver’s seat. He didn’t expect Sam to say anything. His head was lowered again, hair partially covering his face, but Dean could tell he was staring at his hands folded on his lap. Up close now, Dean could see the traces of tears stained on his little brother’s face and the muscles in his jaw were clenched, as though holding something back. He noticed once again how small his brother looked. He figured out another emotion fighting for dominance on Sam’s face: vulnerability. 

Something in Dean took control then; something strong, something innate. Something that said, “Screw the ‘no-chick-flick-moments’ deal.” Something that made Dean push the car door open again and get out. 

He walked with a sense of conviction in his step round to the other side of the car and pulled open the passenger seat door. He only took a moment to look at his brother’s perplexed face before grabbing him by the arm, pulling him into a stand and into his own arms. Dean hooked them round Sam’s neck, pulling him tight so his chin was resting on Sam’s shoulder and his own hand was pressing into his mouth. Needless to say, he had to stand on his tip-toes to achieve this. Meanwhile, his brother stood there, still confused and surprised but starting to reduce into it. After a few seconds, Dean felt him exhale and return the hug. He felt him bury his face in Dean’s jacket and breathe deeply. It was quiet. All that could be heard was their heartbeats, their breathing and the distant morning cries of birds.   
Dean felt the sob more than heard it. He felt Sam’s breath hitch against his shoulder and the muscles in his back tense up. Of course, Sam being Sam, he wouldn’t allow himself to show any more than one simple, solitary sob. But Dean hugged him tighter still.

They stayed like that for a little longer, finding relief, solace in each other amidst their chaotic lives. As Dean pulled back, making sure to keep a reassuring grip on Sammy, he studied his brother’s face. New tears had fallen, following the tracks of those that had come before them. His eyes were bloodshot and brimming while his brows were knitted together in controlled emotion. It was then that Dean noticed the four linear slashes across Sam’s left cheek, right on the bone. He had registered it beforehand, when Sammy had come to find him earlier that morning, but…well, they’d had bigger problems then. The cuts weren’t bleeding, and they were small, admittedly – the Winchesters had sure dealt with a lot worse – but they were still relatively fresh and had to be stinging. And if Dean could do anything, however small, to help…

“C’mere,” Dean mumbled as he guided Sam with his hand on his arm to the hood of the Impala. “Sit.” It occurred to Dean that those were the first words either of them had spoken. Still standing, Sam gave him another puzzled look as Dean made his way to the trunk of the car and removed a box from inside it. Upon seeing the First Aid kit, Sam’s face relaxed from confusion into realisation and he did what his big brother told him to: he sat, perched on the hood of the car.   
From inside the rusted metal box, Dean removed a small packet of antibacterial wipes. A wet cloth might’ve been better, but he would have to make do. Taking a wipe from the packet, Dean noted the lack of argument in Sam. Usually, Sam hated being fussed over, particularly if it was a minor injury such as this but not today. Today he was quiet which, despite knowing the reason for the silence, made Dean smile a little on the inside; he didn’t mind being able taking care of his little brother one bit. Dean finished cleaning up the cuts on a wincing Sam before retrieving an antiseptic ointment from the First Aid kit. He squeezed some out onto his finger (rather clumsily, so what was meant to be a little turned out to be a lot, causing him to wipe the excess onto the used wipe) and tried to be gentle as he dabbed it onto the cuts on Sammy’s face. Occasionally, Sam would purse his lips and his eyes would well up – although not from the pain of the cuts.   
Dean pretended not to notice. 

Once Dean had finished up, he closed the first aid kit and stood back from Sam to study his work. Aware that Sam was looking at him, he met his gaze. There was still that weight in his hazel eyes, that sadness. But there was something else too now. Gratitude. Just as Dean noticed it, Sam opened his mouth to say the words out loud:  
“Thank you,” was all he said. His voice was low, almost a whisper.  
Dean responded with a small smile. His eyes whispered back: 

“Don’t mention it.”

Somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind, he was making plans to take his little brother to Hollywood.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know if you have any suggestions for fics!


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